Dance On Our Graves
by Venillashiz
Summary: She's here to explain why she's killed his wife, all those years ago. She's here to find closure, to bring an end to the chapter of Daniel and Evelyn Shaw, and to start an entirely new chapter of Chuck and Sarah. To start anew. Post season 3,Chuck/Sarah.


A/N: I've been missing for the past month or so. (I have a good reason! Hear me out before you close this window! :D) One, I had my examinations, which was pretty unpleasant. Two, my lovely laptop was confiscated due to a deal I made with my dad, that he was to take it away two weeks before my tests. (You know, because I can't study with it just _sitting there_.) And, three, I had a horrendous writer's block. I managed to churn out this oneshot in a week or so, and for those who are waiting for the latest chapter of Passion Play, it's still in the works, but expect it soon! Sorry for the delay, people. Life happened. ):

Oh, I think I broke Shaw in this one. Sorry to the Shaw lovers (But really, who _is_ a Shaw lover?)

Hope the scene breaks aren't too abrupt, and I hope you enjoy this! Reviews are hugs, people, and I've been having a pretty bad day, so any hugs will be returned.

Disclaimers - I don't own Chuck, or Paper Route's title of "Dance On Our Graves". 

**Theprincess1511. **I couldn't have done it without her. (:

* * *

"I didn't want to kill her."

Her voice travels through the lifeless corridor, a mere echo that falls silent against the thick, bolted walls that have never been breached. The dim, flickering lights bathe the windowless dungeon in a sickly glow and she resists the urge to gag against the thick stench of grime in the air. Patrols came and went every five minutes, even if it were into the wee hours of the night. It was no doubt that the CIA's most notorious underground prison was just what it was – notorious.

On her way in, she spots the many enemies of her team – La Ciudad, the arms dealer they had apprehended years ago, sat in the corner of her enclosed cell. The Ring Director was holed up in the cell at the far end, which she notes unsurprisingly, holds no window in the door.

She knows not why she's here. She knows not why, in the middle of the night, she had abandoned her comfortable bed and the warm body that slept beside her, to stand in the dark, eerie hallway of a prison. A prison that held the world's most dangerous and elusive criminals, that is. Most of all, she has no idea why she attempts to justify her actions to the man who's hurt so many of her loved ones.

"I didn't want to kill her, Shaw," she repeats to the heavy metal door before her, speaking through the tiny window that connects his air to hers; hoping that the man inside would be able to hear her.

When she receives nothing in reply, she requests to the patrolling guard on duty for a chair. She slumps low into the uncomfortable plastic and sighs, wringing her hands nervously. She knows for a fact that Shaw's awake; she could feel his hate radiating through the door, as though the world's largest heat wave were taking place in his cell alone.

He says nothing; he doesn't even breathe in the silence, and she notes that to be something impressive as a deafening silence envelops the entire prison – she could hear the pitter-patter of a leaky water pipe as the droplets of liquid fell onto the asphalt. She could hear the maniacal laughter in the weathered and eroded minds of the beasts that occupied some of the cells.

She's here to explain why she's killed his wife, all those years ago. She's here to find closure, to bring an end to the chapter of Daniel and Evelyn Shaw, and to begin an entirely new chapter of Chuck and Sarah. To start anew.

"I got the order from Graham himself," she explains into the darkness. A spluttering cough in a distance spurs her to continue, albeit nervously.

* * *

"_I was fresh out of Langley, barely a week'__s experience in the field, and Graham thought that I was ready for a mission that would test my skills. A real mission, for someone of my standard __–__ my red test."_

She shuffled nervously in her seat, feeling her over-honed senses kicking into overdrive under the elderly secretary's – Janet, she remembers – scrutinizing gaze. Rising from the unusually comfortable waiting chair, she smoothened her skirt with a sweaty palm, nodding politely to the silver-haired lady behind the desk.

She brought her knuckles against the grand maple doors – once, twice – and enters the office of her high-ranking superior, the man who had recruited her at the tender age of eighteen. Six years ago, she had stood in the office, frightened and cowardly. Now, at the age of twenty-four, fresh out of Harvard and subsequently, Langley, Sarah Walker was the prime of the CIA. She was groomed for perfection, and perfection, she delivered.

"Good morning, Sarah," he greeted cheerfully, not looking up from the computer monitor. He gestured to the chair in front of his desk, signalling that she should take a seat. "How have you been? Any of your Langley graduates still hitting on you?"

She glanced at him, amusement etched in her smile and playful eyes, stretching her smile when he looked expectantly at her. "I'm fine, sir," she nodded absently. "But I'm still having to fight all of them off with a stick."

He bursts into a hearty chuckle, finally looking in her direction as he wiped a tear from his eye. "You've done well, Sarah. I'm glad to see you've made it so far from high school. It's good to see you."

"Thank you, sir. It's nice to see you too."

He places a thick manila envelope, nodding toward the cream of the CIA's crop as she began to study it with analysing eyes, memorizing as much detail as she could in those few minutes of inspection.

"This is your final test. If you pass this test, which – regarding your outstanding records – should be a piece of cake for you, you will join the ranks of the CIA as a deep-cover operative."

She looked up, schooling her features as she hid her surprise. _"Deep-cover, _sir? Isn't that reserved for the more experienced agents?"

He grinned, the garish white of his teeth stunning her for a moment.

"You _are _an experienced agent. In fact, your records at Langley are the most exemplary we've seen in the past twenty years. You're on the track to becoming one of the best we've had in the CIA, Sarah. Don't give up that opportunity."

She nodded, hiding the pride that swelled in her chest at his praise. She knew she was good, but rarely was she presented with such high commendation.

"You will be partnered with one Bryce Larkin, _when _you pass your red-test," he said.

Her jaw dropped. _Partner? I__'__ve never worked with a partner before._

"You have a problem with that?"

"No, none at all, sir," she replied quickly, knowing that her boss didn't take lightly to refusals.

"Good. Your _target_," he stressed, folding his arms when her eyes noticeably widened. "Is a rogue agent whose identity is not above your clearance. This agent is believed to have been turned by enemy operatives. She was last seen in Paris meeting her contact, and that's where you'll be heading."

Turning back to the dossier in her hand, she listened attentively as he explained the details of the most important mission of her life.

"Find her and eliminate her."

* * *

"_When I got to Paris, I was scared shitless. I'__d never killed anyone before, never even hunted animals. I was an expert marksman, but the only things I had ever killed were paper targets. All I had was a picture, a street name and a time."_

The cobbled street seemed like just another typical street in Paris. After all, it was the city of love; of lovers and memories, with movie-making worthiness etched in every nook and cranny of the grand capital of France. But the dark romantic atmosphere that would have once charmed her, now seemed terribly morbid as she wrapped the coat tighter around her torso, the gun in her pocket growing heavier with each step.

Looking once more at the picture, she reassured herself with the fact that she had already memorized the target's face – every feature, every scar was embedded into her near-photographic memory. Despite the grave look that the photograph had reflected, Sarah admired the target's beauty. _Why betray your country? _She spotted the glistening diamond ring on the woman's finger. _Why betray your husband?_

She continued forward, enjoying the pristine Parisian atmosphere that surrounded her. The street name, in big bold letters, stared back at her. _Cédez Le Passage. _She pocketed her hands, relishing in the cool metal of her brand new Smith & Wesson as she gripped it tightly, knuckles bleeding white.

There she was.

The enemy operative approached from afar, seemingly unsuspecting of her. For that, she muttered a prayer of thanks under her breath. Everything was going well. She ran through the plan for the sixtieth time. Shoot. Shoot again. Leave the body. Clear all evidence. Simple, really. But it wasn't.

This was it. All she had to do was get close enough to put a bullet in her without drawing attention to herself. But it was late enough for the streets to be devoid of life, and she wondered why the target had not yet even acknowledged her presence. Her heart rate spiked as she neared her, hoping gravelly that the tub thumping of her heart did not give her away.

Clank.

Her eyes widened as the operative lowered herself to the floor, having dropped a piece of jewellery. A bracelet, she noted. Sarah's hand stilled itself around the gun. _Not like this. Not when she__'__s that vulnerable. _Not when she's kept walking, albeit hesitantly, eyeing their reflections in the side mirror of a car.

As the enemy operative reached into her purse, the alarm bells went off in her head, and she realized that she had been played all along.

_Distractions get you killed_.

She whirled around gracefully, the gun already loaded, cocked and aimed, the silencer fit snugly at the edge of the barrel. She spared no hesitation, watching as the dark flowers bloomed where the bullets had penetrated flesh, a red mist colouring the air where it had been.

The body fell silently, as though it were void of mass, of life and of existence, though it hit the ground with a sickening _thud. _The gun shook violently in her hand, her lip quivered and she felt the bile rising in her throat. She whispered to herself, reviewing the mission plan, over and over, though she couldn't remember what ever came after _shoot._

_What was it? Discard body? Or leave it there? _Moisture began to pool at the back of her eyes, the combined product of fear and absolute _panic_. The sirens that sounded from Paris' finest drew her out of her reverie, and she finally realized that the only thing she could have done was to run, before they could catch her. And the only thing she saw, in her final back glance of her first actual assassination, was the outline of a pistol, barely spilling out of the woman's purse.

So she ran.

And when she returned, hours later, all that was left was the faint chalky outline of a body and the discarded piece of jewellery that had been used to distract her. Sarah Walker held the polished bracelet in her palm, standing on the sidelines, once again away from the prying eyes of those who roamed the streets.

* * *

She held the bracelet in her damp palm – the only charm that adorned the bracelet was rusted from age, barely hanging off the chain. A faint, rusted memory, lost in time. She closed her eyes, willing the images to go away. Her memory was fresh. She'd seen it herself on video. The worst day of her life, caught on tape for the world to see. She was grateful that most of The Ring had been hunted down slowly after their leaders had been captured.

"The Ring lied to you," she stated bluntly, voice barely a whisper, threading lightly, carefully, unsure of how he'd react. Judging by the utter lack of response she'd been receiving so far, she pressed on. "Eve had been turned. She was truly, working for them. Before you even try to deny her involvement, her contact in Paris was a known Ring agent."

Not expecting a reply from the man behind the bolted door, she continued. "I know you must think that she was a double agent of some sort. She wasn't, because the agency would have known about her mission, despite her being in deep cover."

Breathing deeply, she took a moment to pause, looking once again at the glinting accessory in her palm. "Look, I know you loved her. And I know how much you hate me for having something to do with her passing. I don't blame you for that."

She caught a sound behind the door – a shuffle, a movement, _something. _Her voice grew in confidence, yet her breath remained shaky. The musky prison seemed to drop a few degrees in temperature."I'd just like to move on from this, Daniel. I came here to find some... some closure. You were a victim too, but you had no right to mess with my life, let alone Chuck's."

Again, another sound emanated through the door, though this time it sounded as though someone were scraping chains across a metal floor. He was moving around inside. And she knew that the prison, though notorious, did not encourage the use of cuffs or chains. Judging by the clanging of metal, she'd guess that Shaw had dropped his metal bowl of food.

His ragged breaths neared the metal slot on the door, and she decided that it was the right time to return something to him. Her fingers closed around the faded piece of jewellery that sat uncomfortably in her palm. She continued her one-sided conversation.

"I'd like to return the bracelet to you." She felt a break in his composure – a pause in his heartbeat. a low, humming gasp from his lips. The metal bowl clattered to the ground again. A yell from another inmate pleaded with him to "quit it, you fucking jackass!"

He laughed icily, though faintly. The kind of laughter that wasn't quite laughter, as though the person wasn't there at all, but was a mere apparition, and the sound that was once melodious, was now a mere whisper in the darkness. A hiss of air from a faulty tank.

"Keep it," he spat, venom etched at the very edge of his tone. The voice, like the laughter, had such shallow depth to it, that she was unsure of whether he was really behind that door. He hadn't spoken for months, she realized. He'd hadn't spoken a word since he'd been captured. "You've kept it all this while, _Sam._ It should continue as a trophy of your first kill. Wouldn't you like that?"

"No," she replied forcefully, cursing herself for reacting so easily. "I wouldn't, because it's not a trophy and it never was. It was a reminder of the day that I died. So, you can take it back, because I'm alive now, more than I've ever been in years, because Chuck brought me back."

She felt the goose bumps, running in rows across her soft skin, as he burst out in another round of maniacal titters. "Chuck brought you back!" He parroted in mimicry, sarcasm bursting through the seams of his thinly veiled insult. "Well, Eve brought me back. Yes, yes, she did." He laughed again, the dry scratchiness of his throat causing a series of cackles to escape his lips.

"SHE BROUGHT ME BACK!" He shouted, announcing to the entire prison of the revelation. Punctuating the end of his sentences with bursts of giggles, he yelled again, "EVE, DID YOU HEAR THAT? YOU BROUGHT ME BACK. JUST LIKE CHUCK BROUGHT SAM BACK, HUH?"

"Shaw, stop it!" she pleaded, desperately looking around for guards who might have heard his outburst. "Please, just take the bracelet. I thought you'd want that."

"Who says I'd want it? Eve is with me! I don't need a faint reminder of her. She's here. She's real! Who cares about a stupid bracelet?" he protested, giggling, unseen through the thick metal. "Eve! EVE! Did you hear what she said? That _drivel? _You weren't a Ring agent! We were in Paris for our anniversary, right honey?"

"Shaw," she pleaded, shoving the bracelet through the slot in the door, the soft _clank _of the jewellery hitting the ground signalling that she'd aimed correctly. "I'd still like you to have it."

The laughter stopped.

"Eve?" he whispered in disbelief. "Where did you go? EVE! _Why did you leave me? _You! You did this to me! Walker, I'll kill you! You killed Eve! She didn't come back from her shopping trip, because _you killed her! _Eve, can you hear me? Eve!"

And Daniel Shaw began to wail, screaming his deceased wife's name like a mantra. She could only watch in horror as the guards unlocked the door, tranquilizer guns trained on the disjointed man before her. As soon as the door had been opened, two furry darts protruded from his neck, and all noise ceased to exist.

So she ran.

* * *

"Chuck," she whispered, threading a hand through the luscious curls adorning his head. Grinning as he mumbled adorably in his peaceful slumber, she placed a tender kiss against his lips, settling under the covers. He was so, so very warm and she entangled her legs between his, snuggling into his faded Stanford t-shirt.

"Where'dyougo?" he slurred drowsily, snaking his arms around her toned torso, burying his face into her hair as he shifted to make himself more comfortable. His breath tickled her neck, reminding her of the way he'd kissed her neck in the dingy motel in Barstow, all those years back. Her cheeks chose that very time to burn a bright red. God, he was so warm.

"Missedyou," he whispered, smiling unconsciously as he held her tighter, though his eyes remained closed.

"I went for a drive," she lied, albeit uneasily, hoping earnestly that he was too drowsy to notice anything in her voice. "Go back to sleep, honey."

"Mmkay. Nigh' Sarah... Love you."

Thankfully, he had noticed nothing, humming into her hair until his tune drew out into deep, even breaths as he fell back to sleep.

"I love you too."

She thought of a lot of things that night, with Shaw being one of the most prominent figures that occupied the very inch of her mind. His outburst, his slipping sense of sanity, every moment in that dark, grimy prison, replayed through her mind, like an old, skipping tape that could neither rewind, nor be forwarded. She'd received anything but closure.

And as the overwhelming warmth covered her from behind – literally, because Chuck was like a hearth that burned brightly in a blinding blizzard, the warm campfire that warmed her hands and feet in the blistering cold – her thoughts shifted to the man in question. His dazzling smile covered the image of Shaw's own devilish grin. The image of him, adorably cleaning cups and plates during his moments of frustration and stress, replaced the hazy one of Shaw, pressing the gun to her back, about to tip her over into the river.

She shivered involuntarily, comforted by the fact that his arms squeezed her tighter. A finger moved in patterns, dancing along her skin as it left a blazing trail in its wake. She grinned as he snuggled into her neck.

As she began to drift deeper into the blissful oblivion of sleep, as her eyelids grew heavier with each passing moment, an epiphany struck her then – all she needed was Chuck, and every demon from her past would've been slain in that instant.

So she ran.

Into the fields that were the foreground of her dreams, the flowers tickling her face as they bloomed in plain sight, the wonderful scent of Gardenias filling her nostrils. And in the distance, the only man who had ever made it into her heart, stood beneath an arch of that very flower. Chuck Bartowski stood with a single rose in his hand, grinning as though he were a man about to be married to the girl of his dreams.

So she ran.

She ran straight into his waiting arms.


End file.
